A Family's Honor
by reallama
Summary: Los Angeles, 2015. A young and daring detective of the LAPD, Michelle Thompson, is solving murders and busting criminals for the homicide desk. However, when a woman turns up brutally murdered, it may be that her family's past comes to haunt Michelle in a way that she'd never expect. OC, obviously.
1. Chapter 1

Probably the most frustrating thing is this entire world is family gatherings. They are, to put it bluntly, emotionally draining. I'm certain that these things appeal to a certain character but I happen to be in the minority where family equals annoyance. Half the people here I saw when I was about 10 and the other half I don't really speak to. On this occasion, it is my grandmother's and her twin sisters 73rd birthday party. I stand in the corner of the room while my dad is busy talking to one his cousins. I take a huge gulp of the lemonade and secretly wish for there to be vodka. Finally, my dad tears himself away from the riveting tales his cousin tell and leans over in my general direction.

"Having fun sweetie?" He asks in a pathetic whisper. I flash him a what-do-you-think-look and simply sighs and sips his drink, probably wishing for alcohol too. Suddenly, my cousin Angie beams at me in a plastic way and saunters over to my corner.

"Oh my God Michelle! I didn't think you would come! Aren't you busy with work?" She continues to play the interested relative when in actuality she couldn't give to shits.

"Well, family's family right?" The perfect generic answer. I want to pat myself on the back.

"Of course. And you know speaking of family, I pretty much know everything that's happening but you remain a mystery Michelle so…" She nudges me and I am _this_ close to throwing my drink in her face.

"Um, well it's been pretty much the same for me." I mumble into my glass. Angie frowns in a fake way.

"Really, because I had heard that you left or something?"

"Nope, still in the LAPD but maybe you heard I was promoted… 1 year ago." I say a passively as I can. Angie pulls an oh-really face and pretends to be impressed.

"Wow, that's amazing but isn't it dangerous?" She leans in further.

"Yep, 'cause I'm a cop." I say blankly. Angie stares at me as her face goes from curiosity to annoyance.

"Well," she clears her throat, "I mean don't you think that doing something less dangerous would be more beneficial?" Her smile is back but now I'm pissed. One thing to note is that I have been getting this shit for a while. Aside from my grandma and my great aunt, my entire family feels the need to make it their personal mission to warn me of the dangers of being a cop. First, I'm a homicide detective so I'm not in constant danger. Second, my family fails to realize how insulting it is to say to someone that their job sucks. Holding back the rage, I smile as best I can.

"Very true, but I enjoy my work as you do." I say as slowly as I can. Angie looks like she's about to argue back but I quickly walk away into the kitchen. I open up the fridge and all the cabinets in search of something alcoholic but the house is dry. I hear a clink of glass and I turn to see my father in the doorway.

"I thought I heard a hurricane pass in here." He chuckles.

"That's not funny Dad."

"Well anyway, your grandma and great aunt are opening presents."

"What are they, five?"

"No, but Ruth got a crystal ball from Tom."

"Who's Tom?" I ask confusingly. Dad laughs and sighs. He walks up to me and places his hand on my shoulder.

"Look I know you don't like these things but at least try to remember the family will you?"

"Never." I say quickly. Now I'm smiling. He nods his head towards the reception room. I make sure to get in a frown before taking the first step. Back in the reception room, everyone is crowding around the main event. My grandma, Margret and her sister Ruth are perching on the couch. Grandma looks as though she just walked off a plane from Paris. Her head is raised slightly and accompanied with her crossed legs; she completes her high society nature with sharp white shirt and black trousers. Her neck is draped with pearls and her hand is decorated with her engagement and wedding ring. Her sister on the other hand is the complete opposite. She has a loosely fitting floral shirt and long skirt on. Her hair is in a complete mess compared to her sister's pixie cut. At a glance, they seem nothing alike. Just as Dad said, a crystal ball lays next to Ruth as she now fiddles with a bracelet her own daughter gave her. Grandma, on the other hand, is smiling approvingly at a hardback copy of Harper Lee's new book. They continue to unwrap and say the usual thank you's to people when finally the last present is unwrapped. Grandma slowly stands up and clasps her hands together.

"Thank you all for coming here, it's been lovely to see the family again." She smiles. Ruth stands up too and rests her hand on Grandma's shoulders.

"Yes and I'd like to think that you'll be buying more presents long into the future!" Everyone laughs and even I muster up a chuckle.

"Anyway-" Grandma continues, "Hopefully, you all had a nice time but I also know you will have things to do so I won't keep you."

"But I might!" Ruth chimes in. Again, everyone laughs. A big round of thank you's come from different relatives as most people leave. Grandpa this whole time had been sitting in his armchair slowly nodding his head but now he's up and saying goodbye. I was about to leave with Dad until Grandma called us both over.

"Hello you two. We're you going to leave without giving your grandmother a kiss." I groan and lightly kiss my grandmother's wrinkly cheeks. Dad even pecked her cheeks and then, only then, did she beam.

"Thank you, both of you, for coming. It's a shame I couldn't see my grandson but this will have to do." She sighed.

"He sends his love." Dad quipped.

"I'm certain Tim does." She mumbles. My brother is most likely in his dorm doing nothing, classic Tim.

"And Michelle?" Grandma looks me dead in the eye. I hate when she does this because this means that she giving a long ass lecture.

"Yes?"

"Don't let people do that to you. Make you mad and all that. You know that I am proud of you and that's all that matters. They think they're looking out for me ad Ruth but honestly we don't care." She whispers.

"Thanks Grandma, but actually why does everyone care?" Grandma stares at me blankly and then rolls her eyes.

"How does she not know James?" She scolded Dad. He shrugs his shoulders.

"Never mind. Well, my father was in the LAPD but he, uh, died when I was only 5. The family is just worried that the same might happen to you." She slowly nods her head. Meanwhile, I'm busy calling bullshit in my head. Why would anyone care about a dude who died in the line of duty? Also, she failed to answer my question anyway and it was clear Dad feels that way too. I knew that already, but what I didn't know is why that matters. I guess what I'm trying to say is that there is more going on here.

"I see Grandma. Thanks." I say quickly and turn to leave. As I'm almost out the door I can hear my father say, "Come on Mom, she'll figure it out." I knew it.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day brings the lovely sunshine of the Californian sun bursting through my blinds that makes me squint as I rise from my bed. My cat, Princess Rose, is busying meowing as loudly as she can for me to feed her. I have to I have no choice. I pour the wet food into her little bowl as she early waits on the ground, still meowing. As soon as I place the bowls down, she stuffs her face full of her breakfast tuna. I stretch my arms and open a cupboard to get my cereal. As the cereal swirls around in the milk I can't help but think about last night. I mean sure it was annoying but I still can't shake what my dad said. What would I figure out why has he never told me?! I grumble something as I almost throw my bowl into the sink and go and get changed.

What feels like two hours later, I'm finally sitting at my desk. Traffic on the freeway was terrible and I had to get some coffee and then park and it was a whole mess. My desk partner, Sam, smirks.

"Rough night?" He asks.

"Or I'm not a morning person?" I suggest.

"Yes, but I mean last night? You wouldn't stop complaining about it." I don't say anything. I'm still too mad to even speak about it. Sam just shrugs his shoulders.

"How far are you on the reports?" he sighs. I'm still trying to boot up my computer but I can distinctly remember being halfway done.

"Almost finished. Hope you haven't procrastinated too much." I snigger.

"Shut it. The powers of the internet are too compelling."

"Ugh." I roll my eyes. Meanwhile, it looks as though a fight is breaking out between Lisa and Simon at the other desk.

"It was the 25th I know it! Look I documented all of this while you just sit there on your ass." Lisa erupts from her chair and leans over the desk. Simon, calm as could be, leans back on his chair.

"And I'm telling you that it was the 24th because we could process him sooner." Simon continues typing away. Lisa sits down quickly but her cheeks are bright red. I'm certain I could hear a sorry escape from her lips but it also could have been bastard. After a while the phone rings. All typing stops immediately. Sam is the one to pick up but doesn't say a word.

"Where? Uh-huh… got it. Michelle come on we got a dead woman by the Dodgers Stadium." He leaps up out of his seat and quickly straps on his badge and gun. I quickly save the document and have a moment on cheering myself for a job well done before following Sam down to the parking lot.

Isabelle could not be in a worse mood. Her husband, Frank, was being an ass once again, her sister Tina had called Isabelle up this morning complaining about her boyfriend, and now the old man whom she took care of insisted on walking around some stupid park when it looked as though he could collapse at any moment and she would really not be happy. Mr Smith hung on her side in limp manner that made her swear that he was literally sagging in her very arms. She thought all hope was lost when suddenly she saw a crowd of people and what looked line a crime scene, judging by all the police cars, the media swarming, and police patrolling all around the tapped off area. Isabelle had never seen a crime scene and knew instantly that this could be a great topic to rub in her sister's face as soon as she started taking about her asshole boyfriend. She dragged the old man along with her while still maintaining a large grin. Approaching the barrier, Isabelle began to see absolutely nothing. All that was there was a particularly annoyed patrolman being heckled by multiple news outlets. Isabelle craned her neck to try and see over the little mound that blocked her view of the crime scene, but all she could see were the tops of people's heads. Mr Smith did not look amused in the slightest but he did not protest. So, Isabelle continued to drag him over to the patrolman to try and gain a little more information. A man was right in front of the others but did not seem like the rest. He cradled his smartphone and typed furiously as soon as the patrolman did anything. That and his dishevelled chestnut brown hair set him apart from the slick suits and microphones stuffed in the patrolman's area.

"And do you know the detectives on the case." The man asked. The cop rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

"For the last time, I am not at liberty to divulge information about this case. Jeez." The cop left his post in a huff. Everyone, including Isabelle, looked like children upset that all the ice cream ran out. The cameras and reporters began to disperse and start their reports but the man, Isabelle, and of course Mr Smith remained.

"There's nothing here, we should leave dear." Mr Smith muttered. Isabelle could not help but agree and reluctantly turned around with Mr Smith still hanging onto her arms.

I stare at the body for a good minute. Sam is already speaking to the coroner and I can make out the important details. Cause of death was the blows to the head and time of death was early this morning. I crouch down and for a minute I wonder what kind of pain that must feel like. This woman, Greta Reed, is stark naked with her head bashed in and with writing over her torso and boot marks all over her chest. The only reason I knew her name is that the killer helpfully left her purse behind. Her driver's licence, lipstick, a house key, and some receipts were all her belongings. The lipstick color seems to be the same on her body and the only message that sticks out is AGAIN, along with other not so nice terms. I notice that her hand is bloodied. The coroner looks over and shakes his head.

"Probably a wedding ring that was torn off judging by the position." So the creep decided to collect a ring, probably to pawn or to keep? Sam pokes me in the elbow and I turn to see what he's looking at. We can just about see over the little hill the crowd of people behind a barrier. I didn't even know so many people were in the area but whatever.

"Do we have an address?" I turn and ask.

"Yep, 212 Normandie Ave."

"Then let's go, I mean we could wait for the analysis back at work but…"

"Yeah I get it." Sam waives his hand to tell me to shut up. As we walk to the car I notice out of the corner of my eye an elderly man and a younger woman dragging him away from the barrier. However, the man seems less interested in the fact that he's being manhandled and more into Sam and me. He smiles at me in a kind of I-know-what's-up way and it sends a chill up my spine.

Greta Reed's apartment is most notably filled with junk. Everything had been thrown on the floor. The only thing that remained standing was a picture of Greta posing in front of a pyramid. I'm busy shifting through the crap in the bedroom when Sam peers round the doorway.

"Finding anything in this junk?"

"Nope."

"Well that sucks but I found this half eaten doughnut, a unopened jigsaw puzzle, and – " he pulls out a shirt and takes one whiff of the scent. " what appears to be week old laundry. So, Detective Thompson, what kind of a person are we dealing with?"

"No idea." I shrug my shoulders. Sam pouts but I just roll my eyes.

"A person who clearly does not give a shit, also is or was married judging by shoes over there and I think alcoholic." He sniffs the shirt again and nods his head affirmatively. I stand up from my junk pile.

"Great, so you're thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That we need to wait for the autopsy and forensics and we should go back because yes we should." He's wearing one of his wide grins.

"I was thinking that the husband did it. But fine, we'll go back." I storm out of the apartment while Sam is not so subtly cheering.

It took us forever to drive back downtown and it did not help that Sam insisted on using the freeway when I repeatedly told him we could take the streets. So I collapse in my chair with nothing to do and pissed off while Sam cracks his fingers and gets back to writing up reports. Simon shuffles up next to me with coffee in hand.

"Did you kids have fun?" I glare up at him. He shrugs his shoulders and sits down at his desk. Lisa is now making more busy work for herself by reorganizing her desk. I decide my time is best spent surfing the web in my usual manner. First, I check my twitter feed to be somewhat informed on daily issues because I have no time to read the newspaper and I barely listen to the news. Next, I will peruse my subscription box on YouTube before ending my escapades by shuffling through the various sub-reddits. Finally, the phone rings and race to pick it up before Sam even knows what's happening.

"Detective Thompson how can I help?" I grin as Sam glares at me.

"Oh my God, are you fighting with your partner again? Will you stop that?" A harsh female voice comes through on the other line. Naomi, forensic analyst extraordinaire and hard ass loves to scold me every time but I know she thinks I'm cool.

"No I am not, I'm just enthusiastic. So what's up?"

"Come down here with your partner, please." Silence. I press my ear to phone and I realize that she just hung up on me. I stare disgustingly at the phone and groan.

"Naomi has summoned us." I say bluntly. Sam peers over his screen and smirks. I stare at him confusingly but he shakes his head. I don't understand him sometimes. After he made sure he saved his work (or rather I did) we hurry to the elevator and descend down the building into the bowels. I walk out first and there's Naomi tapping her high-heeled shoe.

"What took you so long?" She scowls. Sam and I point at each other and declare, "It was him/her!" Clearly Naomi is having none of this as she just turns around and I guess expects us to follow her.

"I'm on a tight schedule here so let's get this over quickly." Naomi's words feel as though they are constantly piercing my heart.

"Always the charmer." Sam whispers quickly before we enter Naomi's pristine lab. It's like walking into OCD's version of heaven, everything clearly labelled and clean that you could use the counters as mirrors. A bunch of screens display all sorts of information that could make your head spin, luckily we have a nerd to decipher it.

"Please pay attention." Naomi looks to me with a scowl on her face, as I am clearly more interested in anything but her.

"Sorry." I mumble. Naomi groans and turns to face her computer and starts clicking things and typing stuff.

"According to the coroner, death was by blunt force trauma to the frontal lobe." Naomi pauses and slightly turns her head to look at us meanwhile the screen is being reflected off her glasses so it gives off this very insane scientist look, which is pretty much her.

"Is that a question or…" Sam suggests. Naomi groans, again. So I guess that was her way of saying figure it out morons or they don't pay enough for this shit.

"Anyway-" she continues, " I found flakes of skin underneath her fingernails so she clearly tried to fight her attacker off. Also, I recovered some fingerprints on her phone in her purse belonging to a Derek Reed. I ran the prints through and apparently he was arrested last year for a DUI. Unfortunately I couldn't get anything off the skin cells."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because this isn't the FBI or an episode in some police procedural so that means I am not a wizard." Naomi's face turns a shade of red I never saw. A sensitive subject I now know to never bring up again. She waves her hand toward the exit and doesn't say anything but Sam and I are out the door before she even turns back to her screens. One day I will get to know the real Naomi Tanaka.

Back in the office I search through my email and find the coroner report, which makes me giggle slightly, but at the same time I can imagine myself running down stairs to Naomi and seriously rubbing it in her face that she jumped the gun.

"Hey did you see the coroner's-" Sam starts and I just nod my head. We both stare at each other for a minute before breaking out into reserved giggling that is safe for work, because obviously we both want to reaaaallly rub in in Naomi's face. However, my master revenge plot of two minutes is interrupted by a phone call.

"Detective Thompson, what up?" I say while leaning back on my chair.

"Um, yeah there's an old man here to see you about an on going case." Clearly a random guard who got pinned with the duty of playing nice.

"I mean, sure send him up." I shrug my shoulders. I know for a fact we have a pretty solid lead on the husband so really talk to an old man couldn't hurt. The elevator doors open to reveal the poor guard, an old man, and a clearly annoyed caretaker all crammed into a shitty space. The guard is the first to get out and directs the other two to my desk. The old man seems strangely familiar but I can't put my finger on it. The woman sort of wanders off while the old man is seated in a decrepit chair but is still looking at me with a beaming smile like he just won a million bucks. I pull out my notebook and flip to clean page and I notice out of the corner of my eye that Sam is staring in wonder at the scene unfolding because I will not hear the end of this in the car.

"So, Mister?"

"Martin Smith." He says matter-of-factly.

"Right Mr. Smith, you said you had some information?" This is his cue to reach slowly into his jacket pocket and pull out an aging photograph. He places it carefully on the table and taps his finger on it repeatedly.

"Well I was at the park today with Isabelle and obviously I saw the commotion. Terrible what happened to that poor girl, but anyway it reminded me of something I found while I was digging around in my house. This photo of a woman who died, I think, in a similar fashion." I decide to take a peek and to my horror I see a naked woman like Greta Reed with the same head injury. The first thing I notice is that the photo is in black and white but also that it's old. I turn it over and scribbled on the back is _Celine Henry February 1947._ Wait, 1947! I quickly look up at Mr. Smith who is clearly impressed by my reaction.

"How old are you sir?" I ask, a little afraid of the answer. He chuckles and coughs a little.

"I'm the ripe old age of 95 dear. Now if you want to know if I remember the details of this murder, I can't say I do because I probably glossed over it in the newspaper but still…" He trails off as though he is talking to himself but does not want to enlighten me to the conversation.

"Where did you find this?" I wave the picture around.

"I found it while cleaning my attic but if I am remembering correctly there were more photos in an envelope and they are probably in the floor boards still."

"Why didn't you take them out?" He stares at me long and hard like I should know the answer.

"Because I wanted to respect the wishes of the person who put them there. This person must have a reason to bury such a memory."


	3. Chapter 3

I think you've noticed I write my chapters short so I will try to release two a week so you have at least something to read. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Me OC's are mine.

* * *

The old man's words rang in my ears as Sam and I began to drive to the husband's house. Sam somehow beat me to the wheel so I'm left staring out at the streets and watching all the people walk serenely along the sidewalk, not a care in the world. The blinding sun penetrates the car like a rude awakening. It blinds me for a while so I'm forced to look out the front of the car.

"Why the long face." Sam asks in a slightly concerned tone.

"Well, it's just that the photo was so eerily similar to the crime scene so I'm gonna go over later to the old guys house get the other photos that were with the first one." I cross my arms. An unnerving thought is wriggling away in the back of my mind. I have a bad feeling about this case that gets worse and worse the more we approach the husband's house. Sam doesn't say anything, which drives up my anxiety further and further. He knows what I know or he figured it out already and now he is just building me up to make fun of me and right now I don't appreciate that!

We finally arrive at some apartment in Glendale that looks like it's seen better days. It's one of those oddball properties that never quite got torn down and I guess everyone's afraid of touching it. We ring the doorbell that has Reed's name on it and surprisingly we get an answer.

"Hello?" A gruff voice comes through on the speaker.

"LAPD sir, we have a few questions for you." Sam responds in his official voice. A moment of silence passes before the buzzer sounds. Odd. We ascend up the stairs to his apartment when we find that the door is open with Derek Reed standing in the doorway, bourbon in one hand. He looks as though he hasn't slept, eaten, or even shaved in days and I bet that he was crying his eyes out too.

"Come in," he croaks. I almost feel bad for him but I can't help but be conflicted over the fact that if he's guilty then my irrational fear will be slain or something like that. Derek Reed slumped into a sagging chair in the living room and we sit on the beer stained couch.

"I know what you're here about… I heard on the news and I-," Derek trailed off. He looks down at his feet and sniffs the bottle and is clearly contemplating taking another swig.

"Can we take a look around?" I suggest. Derek doesn't look up but he does nod his head. I get up and peer into his messy bedroom. The majority of it is a pile of laundry. Next, I canvass the kitchen and notice several crumpled up notes and I decide to take a peek. Immediately I notice that they are drafts and they concern our victim. A lot of the drafts usually start with 'I need help with my wife'. Okay, this could be what I'm looking for! However, before I turn around my phone buzzes and I have to take it as the caller ID shows the illustrious Naomi Tanaka.

"Hello?" I ask as sweetly as possible.

"Detective. I forgot to mention something before you ran out of my office." Naomi states. That's laughable, as I could have sworn SHE was the one who made us run out but whatever.

"What is it?"

"I ran the analysis on the shoe prints that were on the body, they appear to be size 8s, something you should look out for." Then she hung up. First of all, that would have been helpful! Secondly, why is she telling me how to do my job? I double back to the bedroom and see if I can't find any shoes. Unfortunately I have to go digging in the laundry but I do find some work boots. Yay. However, they're size 10s. Boo. I saunter back to the couch and plop down.

"Mister Reed. I have a few questions for you." I say in my cop voice.

"Okay, go ahead." He mumbles. I look down at my notes when I remember that I forgot to draw the evidence. Shit. Not that it's super important to the case but it helps me visualize. Quickly, I sketch the letter and the shoe size and then I look up at Derek Reed with an I-meant-to-do-that look. Sam is clearly holding back is giggles; great, another thing I won't hear the end of.

"Were you and your wife going through some rough times?" I open up the question. Derek Reed shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

"Not really." He says quickly. I look at him unbelievingly. Is he serious?! They are literally living in different places but whatever I have the drafts!

"Okay so why then do you have countless drafts of you asking for help with your wife on the table?" I lean in, zeroing my gaze on him. Derek Reed looks around and sighs.

"Look, she was… in a bad place. She had been fired from her job and shit got worse. Y'know, depression and all that. I begged her to get help but she wouldn't listen! So, I moved out and I was asking a physiatrist to help out." He goes quiet and sits motionless.

"Kind of a dick move to just bail like that in her hour of need." Sam comments. Derek Reed looks up with a pained expression.

"She wanted me gone! What was I supposed to do?"

"Be there for her!" Sam raises his voice.

"I was. But she always resented me and I guess it was a good a time as any." Derek fell silent. I look down at my notes; there must be something I'm missing… Wait! His fingerprints on her phone!

"If you're split up, why did we find your fingerprints on her phone?" I pose the question. Derek sighs even deeper than before.

"I still have a key to the old place. I walked in one day to confront her one last time and well… I saw she had a text from some guy. I thought she was cheating on me! She denied it and told me to get out, so I did." That gives me an idea. I get up and walk back into the kitchen. I cross my fingers as I try and reach Naomi.

"Detective?" Naomi answers with a confused tone.

"Hey, I need you to check Greta Reed's phone for a-" I turn back to Derek.

"Did you see a name?"

"Yeah I think it was Dave something." Derek shouts. Jeez, he didn't need to be that loud.

"Did you get that?" I ask Naomi.

"Yes and I already ran a check on him, David Rogers texted her two days ago saying to meet him at the 'regular place'. There's nothing in the database about him but he does work at a bar in the Downtown area, 426 South Broadway."

"Thanks Naomi!"

"Please next time, give me warning." Naomi hangs up and I'm left the question of how? I swivel back to the couch and sit down.

"Okay Mr Reed, we are going to check out this Dave guy but don't leave town alright? We might have more questions for you." I say as reassuringly as possible. Sam gets up and opens the door and waits. Derek looks up with his puppy eyes but doesn't say a word. Sam shuts the door as soon as I leave.

"So, where are we going?" He asks. Oh shit I forgot he's not clued in. While we walk back to the car, I fill him but he still insists on driving. He also insists on taking the freeway again even though he knows there's traffic and we get into one anyway and it was just a terrible time but somehow we make it to the bar in less than an hour. It was a sad little place tucked and away and hidden by all the tall buildings that dot the downtown area. Sam peers into the window to check if there is at least a living human inside. He cracks open the door and suddenly a pungent musty of beer and cigarette smell hits my face. Lovely. I follow Sam in and immediately the bartender gives us a dirty look.

"Whaddya want?" He grumbles. Sam flashes his badge and the bartender's eyes widen but he doesn't move, thank God. We sit down on the stools while the bartender is busy arranging the glasses. I flip open my trusty notebook and quickly sketch his face.

"Does a David Rogers work here?" I ask. The bartender looks confused for a second and looks even more concerned.

"That's me. What's the problem?" Ooh, the plot thickens. While writing his name next to his face I ask, "did you know a Greta Reed?"

"Yeah she was a regular here but that was it really." He looks down at the bar top. Boom. Although, why do they always lie?

"Oh really? Because asking her to meet at the regular place doesn't seem like that was it." I got him now! He seems flummoxed, knowing that he can't really hide.

"Okay fine, she was… lonely. Always coming in here drinking away her sorrows and I… well it started with me just driving her home and then it changed to us meeting at the beach. She likes it there. Wait, why are you asking?" Oh crap, he doesn't know. I look to Sam for some guidance, but he shakes his head.

"I'm sorry to tell you this but she was found dead this morning." Nobody moves as the news sinks in. David Rogers sighs heavily and stares down at his shoes.

"I see." He quivers. Jeez, they really were in love.

"She, ah, had depression and she told me that she felt like someone had clipped her wings and like she could never leave. Did you know she always wanted to travel the world? I think she went to Egypt one time but I never found out why she couldn't anymore." The colour drained from his face as he fell silent.

"I need to ask, where were you last night?" I ask as calmly as I can.

"Here, you can check our security tapes. Greta wasn't here though, I should have known that something was wrong."

* * *

We left David Rogers to wallow in his grief but we had to move on. By the time we made it back to the office it was time to go home. For me it meant to go over to the old man's house. Before I leave, I sketch down his face, as much as I can remember, and some questions I might ask. The drive over to his home was a little arduous because of one simple reason: he lives in fucking Hollywood. I pull up to his house after several traffic jams on the freeway and see his caretaker is standing in the doorway. I park in the driveway and stop for a second to look at the house. It's one of those old holdouts that were built in a time when they still embraced tacky green paint. The house itself seemed to still be in good condition through lots of TLC. I lock the car and ascend up the stairs to the porch. The caretaker still stares at me and gestures inside. I peer in and to my right is a quaint living and to the left is the kitchen. The old man is sitting in an armchair in the living room and passively watching the TV. I say this because as soon as I stand in the archway he turns immediately and greets me with a smile.

"Isabelle, could you show the detective to the attic?" He calls out. I hear a load groan and Isabelle bursts in and barely looks at me but I still follow her. We climb the stairs until we reach a ladder that is hooked to the floor of the attic. Isabelle gestures up with her thumb and leaves me. Slowly, I climb the ladder and poke my head up to see what I was expecting: a bunch of old shit. There are a lot of pictures, old clothes, and lots of boxes scattered around. I inspect the floor for the floorboard and spot a tiny hole in one. I poke my finger through it and slowly pick up the aged wood that is slightly jammed and takes more force than I care to use. Inside is a dusty chest that clearly has not seen the light of day until today. I carefully open it and see inside an envelope and other knick-knacks. I shut the box and walk back downstairs. Back at the living room, the old man is still staring the TV. I perch on the couch and he turns his head and looks at the box with a surprisingly happy grin. I crack the box open again and pull out the envelope. I turn it around and on the front it just says 'for later'. I lift the flap up and see several other photos of different women, all dead. They, like the first photo, are in black and white and they also have the name of the victim and the date. Again, they too are crime scene photos. I slip the photos back into the envelope and place it at my side and turn to the other assorted things inside the box. There is a detective badge, of all things, a postcard from New York with nothing written on it, several pencils, and a notebook. I pick up the notebook and turn to the first page.

"What?!" I shout louder than I thought as even Isabelle peers in. This notebook, and all other crap in this box, in this random guy's house belongs to Detective Cole Phelps and unless I'm misremembering that is definitely my grandma's maiden name. So, my great grandfather's shit is in some other dude's house, except it was in the floorboards. I want to kick myself as now all the stuff my grandma told me about her old house in Hollywood comes back. This isn't some coincidence; this is my great grandfather's house.

"Did you find something interesting?" The old man muses. The old man, I kind of forgot!

"Very interesting indeed." I say quickly. I whip out my own notebook, eager to find answers.

"When did you acquire this house Mr Smith?"

"Oh I'd say ten years ago. I moved from New York to retire here. I used to be a professor so I could have gone anywhere but I always found the West coast appealing." He says pensively. Okay, so he just bought the house. Grandma did tell me that her mother sold the place when grandma and Ruth moved away. So that strikes out the old man from suspicion. Actually, I don't know what I was suspecting him of doing. I guess stealing from my family?

"Okay so when did you actually find this stuff, as in days, months-" I start to ask.

"Years." He interrupts. So, he must have found it while putting all the crap up there but only took one picture. Okay now he's back in the suspicion pool.

"Did you know this Cole Phelps?" I ask. Now I could swear the old man looked melancholic for a moment but the grin quickly returned.

"Now, I might be misremembering this, you know the mind ebbs away the older you get I swear, but yes I think he was some war hero type that returned from the war and joined the LAPD. His face was all over the papers; I mean he was one of the best. But then something happened, I can't remember…" the old man trails off and looks around the living room as though he's looking for some cue. So he knows about as much as someone would if they lived in that time period, good. I look down at the envelope and suddenly it hits me, why would he keep all these photos and what did this mean? I rise and the old man focuses his attention back to me.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah, I got what I needed I think." I turn to leave but just before I do the old man calls after me.

"Remember Detective, listen to what he's telling you!"


	4. Chapter 4

A few questions swirl in my mind. First, how did all that stuff get into that box? Problem is I don't really know what happened, but I know something is off. The old man, the house, even the caretaker, everything is just wrong. Since I don't like being clueless I call my grandmother and hope she is still awake. I probably should call more often so I'm prepping myself for her to chastise me. The phone keeps ringing and I keep looking down at the phone thingy in my car while also focusing on the road.

"Hello? Michelle?" My grandmother's voice calls out.

"Yeah it's me. Hey, can I come over to your house because I have a few questions and I can't really do it over the phone." I hope that was good enough!

"Of course dear, you know you are always welcome. How long do you think you'll be?"

"I dunno, maybe another 30 minutes."

"Then I will see you then." She hangs up and I find a new sense of adventure, as I'll finally get to the bottom of this.

My grandmother has decided to wait for me on her porch with some drink and beams at me as I approach. She beckons me to come sit next to her; at least it's not a cold night.

"So what's on your mind?" She asks, facing me. I pull out my notebook and she sighs.

"Ah, I see." She says crestfallen. Normally I would try to comfort her but right now I am on a mission.

"Yeah, uh, anyway I need to know what happened to your father." She looks shocked. I think that all the questions I would ask, she wasn't ready for this one. I mean I think she figured I would ask eventually but I guess not tonight.

"Well, a lot happened so which part?" She asks.

"His death. I need a timeline of what happened leading up to his death." I poise my pencil, ready to write.

"Right. Let's see-" she looks up at the sky to catch the memories falling down, "first, he was kicked out of the house by my mother, he cheated on her and I think it was in the papers so she was rightly upset. He stayed with his lover, I think, up until his death. Now, if I'm remembering this correctly he was working Arson and he found something? I don't remember really why he died but I do remember his funeral. I sat in the front and all these people were there and they all looked important. A woman shouted something and stormed out and after a man said that I should remember my father as a good man. That stuck with me all my life…" She drifts off as if she's reliving the experience right now. Again, I would comfort her but I need to press on. I look down at my notes and see that she said he was kicked out before he died so he didn't put that stuff in the box. So, who did?

"How long did you live in the house?" My question snaps her out of her phase.

"Mom sold the house in 1977 I think. By that time she wanted to have a smaller place and she… well her age made her resentful of the place so she left."

"Could she have done something with your father's belonging?" I lean in. My grandmother thinks for second and closes her eyes.

"I don't know what my mother did, but she probably put that stuff away in the attic or she threw the stuff out or she might have sold some stuff, I really can't say." I think that was all I was going to get but it did give me some peace of mind. There is a slight possibility my great grandmother put that box in the floorboards but I still have a bad feeling in my gut. Problem is I can't prove anything as my prime suspects are in the ground. Suddenly the old man's advice echoes in my mind. What is he telling me? Is he a ghost or something or he's back from the dead? The stuff in the box… has the photos about those murders! Shit, the murders I need to find out about those! I scribble down what I need to find and I stand up quickly. My grandmother's smile returns and crosses her arms.

"Leaving?" She asks. I take a moment to realize that I should probably be nice.

"Uh, yeah. Thank you very much." I say as I'm walking down from the porch, step by step. I turn my back to my grandmother and wander off into the night.

* * *

It wasn't until I walked into my apartment and Princess Rose started yelling at me did I realize how long the day had been. I quickly feed Princess Rose and sit down on my couch and study the box. I lay the pictures out on the coffee table and make sure to push away the empty soda bottles and potato chip packets. I brush off the crumbs of I don't know what and put them in chronological order with the obvious exception of the first one, which is on my desk in the office. A common theme I notice is that all of them were found in an isolated place. Some were in a park, one was in a rail yard by the looks of it, and another was in an alleyway. All of them were strangled, judging by the marks on their necks. I was about to say all were naked, except one was still fully clothed. There also did not seem to be similarities between the women. Some had lighter hair than others and I think one was Hispanic. The black and white photos are no helping me so I try and think how Cole Phelps would have done this. Although he was there at the scene of the crime so I guess that would have helped. I open a new page in my book and write down the key features that are highlighted in the pictures. Really though, my best bet now is to look up the files on these women. What is he telling me? I try and rack my brain around that question. I missing something here and I know that I'll find all that in those case files. I lay my head down on the closest pillow and suddenly it was 8 in the morning. Princess Rose was on top on my chest and meowing again.

"Okay, okay I'm up." I mumble. I get up and fill her bowl and replenish her water bowl too. Now all that was left to do was to get to work and figure this mystery out.

My first stop in the office is to the records room because I get the feeling I'm not going to find it in the database. The middle-aged woman eyes me suspiciously as I approach and even more as I tell her I need homicide cases between February and March in 1947.

"You have names?" She says while her eyes glance at the screen.

"Yeah these names." I give her the notebook with all the names. She looks down at the notebook without holding it and types the names in quickly.

"Okay-" She turns the monitor around for me to see, "here you have all the closed cases up here, and down here are your women in the cold cases." She circles around the names with the cursor. All open cases? So Cole Phelps couldn't solve these so he wants me to?

"Can I get those cases?" I ask hopefully. The woman groans and reluctantly moves across to let me through.

"Follow me." She growls. We go down a long corridor of cases that are either opened or closed. At first, the cases are more recent but we suddenly go back in time until we reach the aisle with all the cases from the 1940's, or at least some of them. We stop in front of five boxes and the woman changes her look to smugness.

"There you go lady. Have fun!" She walks away and leaves me to figure how the hell I'm going to move five fucking boxes. I look around to see if I can find a cart or something but it's barren wasteland in the cart department. I try to stack all the boxes on top of each other and try to lift them up. No chance. Finally, I whip out my trusty phone and call Sam down to help with some packing. After a few minutes, he rushes down with the grumpy lady in tow.

"You said you needed help, that is was urgent?" He says out of breath. He quickly looks down at the boxes and I think also where he is and frowns.

"Wait, what the hell are you doing here?" He asks incredulously.

"Funny you should ask. I'm here because these boxes are going to help us solve the case." I say proudly. Sam still doesn't believe me.

"Okay, so I'm guessing you want help?"

"Yep."

"So you called me telling me it was an emergency when you really want to look at some old cases!" He shouts.

"It relates to the case! I'll show you if you help me!" I shout back. Begrudgingly, he picks up the three boxes stacked and starts walking back to the elevator. I pick up the remaining boxes and attempt to catch up. Meanwhile, we both leave a stunned lady to wonder what the hell was that?

Back at the desk, we place the boxes around the floor and in order of date. First on our list is Celine Henry's case. Inside is just a bucket load of crap. When I say crap I mean pictures, evidence lifted from various scenes, and analyses. What is important is the summary and the other crap that comes with filing out a report. I pick up the holy file and lay it flat on my desk. Oddly enough I'm surprised to see Cole Phelps's handwriting. Evidently he was the one stuck with doing the report but I notice how neat it is. I mean I've seen it before on the pictures but there is something serene with seeing full sentences and the fluidity of his report. The content is actually the normal stuff that is in all reports such as processing, acquisition of evidence, and of course interrogation. He questioned two suspects and put away a guy named Alonso Mendez. However, the charges were dropped suddenly after it was revealed that there was a mishandling of evidence. As I probe through the other case files, a common trend seems to pop up. All had someone convicted but all the suspects were let go. So either the LAPD was seriously inept during 1947 or Cole Phelps found something that needed to be covered up. Sam is busy looking at a white shoe when I tap him on the shoulder.

"What?" he asks, annoyed.

"Dude. A serial killer murdered these women and now-" I look to the photo of Greta Reed "it's happening again."

"Okay and just how do you figure that?" He looks between the shoe and me.

"All the men convicted? Their charges were dropped and now these all remain unsolved murders. So it would make sense for an obsessive cop to keep photos right?"

"And?"

"And that means that Cole Phelps knew what really happened and was saving those murders for later and the fact that the photos were together makes me think he did not think the murders were isolated incidents!" Sam stands up with the shoe still in his hand. He points at with it in an unintentional menacing manner.

"So even if this is true, how can we prove it and why do you think it's the same thing?" That's my cue to walk over to Greta Reed's crime scene.

"Look at the Henry case. Same MO and how the body was left displayed like that. Also, why the hell would any of our suspects write again like that? They loved her, not hate. This-" I point at the mangled corpse "was a display for us. The killer is showing us what they can do, what they are capable of." I think I was loud enough for the whole floor to hear as I suddenly notice that everything has gone eerily silent. Sam slowly turns his head towards a door behind me. His grin widens and I swear he started cackling.

"Then you get to tell the captain." He says. Captain Santiago is known for is temper. He likes to be left alone and only told when a case is done or when we've arrested someone. Lately, he's become more egregious to anyone walking by his door. Some say he is writing his magnum opus, others think he is hiding from someone. Personally I think he just likes to be alone, I don't blame him honestly. Still, that does not stop him from being scary as balls. I reluctantly knock on his door and I hear a loud boom come from the other side.

"Come in!" The muffled shout orders me. I slowly open the door and there is the captain looking strangely innocent as can be. Normally my detective skills would be going into overdrive but I have to contain them for a little bit while I try and explain my evidence. He sits there almost sage like and lets me ramble off all the things I have learnt. He rises from his desk and walks out of the office without saying a word. I instinctively follow him and watch as he looks over the board and the many boxes on the floor.

"Alright." He says abruptly and walks into his office and slams the door. So I'm guessing that means he agrees? I look to Sam for confirmation and he nods his head. Great, now I have a serial killer on my hands. Sam is busy packing up some of the evidence he randomly pulled out. I sit down in my chair and left the wheels carry me in any direction.

"You okay?" Sam asks while still packing up the white shoe. My eyes are wandering around the office. I can see City hall from here beyond the trees and I notice how much coffee we cops drink.

"Yeah I'm fine." I say in a daze. I should be ecstatic that the captain agreed with me but a serial killer. For all I know, I could be overthinking things and maybe Cole Phelps just kept those pictures because he was just weird! Or maybe I'm overanalysing everything again. I fidget in my chair and breathe in deeply. Sam walks over on his knees and sits down almost daintily by my feet.

"Cheer up dude, at least we now know what we're looking for. Imagine poor Cole Phelps figuring this out but it's too late." That really didn't cheer me up. I stand up without saying a word and I just keep walking.

"Where are you going?" Sam shouts.

"Out." I reply back. I wander downstairs to the car park. I get in and start my car. I pull out of my space and my muscles start taking me somewhere. It wasn't until I was passing over Santa Monica Boulevard that I suddenly realize that I'm going to the old man's place. My mind takes over and I grip the wheel. I pull up to his house and get out of the car and slam the door behind me. I ring the doorbell as hard as I can and wait for what seems like forever for the old man to waddle to the door and open it.

"Can I help you Detective?" He croaks. In that moment, I realize that I have not idea why I am here. I mean I knew where I was going but it just felt like instinct took over.

"May I come in?" I ask in a pathetic voice. He nods his head almost as if he knows everything. The couch in his living room is calling to me and before I know it, I'm slumped on his cushions looking at the stuff he put on his walls. Even though my entire body has crashed, my mind is busy taking in all the cues that I can pick up. The first thing I notice is that there are no photos of him and all of his stuff seems as though it was recently bought in the store even though an old man like himself would have kept some things, like the stuff in his attic. The old man comes back into the room and eases himself into his chair. Meanwhile I can hear a clanging of pots and pans coming from the other room.

"Isabelle is fixing dinner." The old man says. It sounds more like bashing dinner. I half expected the old man to start pontificating on the nature of dinner but instead he just sits across from and stares into my eyes. It really feels as though he is searching me, or he is trying to probe information out of me, or he is interrogating me. Still, he doesn't say a word.

"Uh, I realize this is weird for me to drop in like this." The words escape my lips. The old man smirks in a way that makes me want to scream at him.

"A little. I figured it was because you couldn't get enough of my company." He chuckles.

"But-" I continue, "I need to ask you something or no… maybe I just…" A sharp pain erupts throughout my skull. I feel like I need to cradle myself and curl up into to a ball. Instead, I just lay my head back on the couch cushion and look up at the beige ceiling.

"You want to ask _him_ something." The old man says quietly, almost soothing. I nod my head slowly.

"Maybe you should just rest for a bit." He says in the same calming tone. I hear him turn on the TV as I close my eyes and try to imagine Cole Phelps. I suddenly feel sick in my stomach as it hits me that it's odd that he is my great grandfather. In fact, I never considered that this whole time I've been looking at his old cases. Also, I don't think I've even seen a photo of him, but I try to imagine a guy where the old man is. He's sitting down in the chair with his left foot resting on his right knee. He's wearing a blue striped suit, pressed of course, and a blue hat to match but you can still see his hair underneath. I imagine him looking like Dad, blondish hair and hazel eyes. He too is resting his head against the chair and looking up at the ceiling. I want to say something to get rid of this retched feeling in my chest. He mouths something but I can't quite make out what it is but it calms me a little.

"You're right." A voice whispers in my ear but I don't see Cole's mouth moving.

"I don't know that." I reply.

"You're right." It says again. I fidget again on the couch as a tingling feeling builds in my chest.

"I don't know that." I say again. Suddenly I jolt up as something pokes my side. I open my eyes and see that it's dark outside. The old man is sleeping in his chair and Isabelle is next to me on the couch.

"Are you all right?" She enunciates slowly. I rub my temples as I stand up.

"I'm fine." I mumble. Isabelle seems satisfied as she simply walks away without another word. I look down at the old man who wears a face of pure bliss. I leave the house as quietly as I can and I sink into my car and stare out onto the road. The headlight glide across my windscreen as the buzz of the city hums along in the background. I can hear the wail of sirens and the boisterous tones of the car horns. I cruise on home only slightly aware of my peripheral vision. I shuffle into my apartment and make out the meows fast approaching. Princess Rose claws at me to feed her so I glide over and fill her bowl up. I take a nice long shower and feel all the pain wash off me with every stroke of the soap against my body. The water pours down my face but feels as though it's clearing my mind of a thick cloud. For once, I feel an utter sense of bliss too.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning comes with the usual surprises of a needy cat, my tired eyes, the fucking traffic, and Sam with a sassy remark as soon as I sit down.

"You had fun on your acid trip? What was it like?" He leans over my desk and pretends to listen with wonderment.

"Shut up. I was tired and I had a brain fart." I don't even look at him. Lisa comes round the corner with a coffee cup in and hand and chortles at Sam's comment.

"You disappeared for hours yesterday!" She says as she's going back to her desk. Great, now I have the peanut gallery in the office. However Simon does not seem to be interested in giving commentary as he's sleeping but still has his hand on the phone, just in case. Sam pulls back and continues to do something on his computer. That leaves me to stew in my own thoughts as I begin to try and fill out the report on the Reed case. The image of Cole Phelps is still deep in my mind and even when I close my eyes I can still see him across from me. Jeez, maybe Sam is right, maybe I did go on some drug-induced trip. I guess all the crap is starting to hit me and I guess it was a good thing that I got it off my chest, but a little weird that I wandered into the old man's home. I stop typing as soon as I think of the old man. Wow, he must be seriously chill because I totally just barged in and slept on his couch. Now, I'm feeling embarrassed but I can't let it show or Mister Funny Pants over there will make fun of me. The worst part is that now all I can do tirelessly look for a lead, which is time consuming and boring. I breathe in deeply and type Greta Reed into Google to get a quick overview. From the multiple sources that the Internet can offer, I begin to piece together Greta Reed's life. She was a manager at a boutique in Santa Monica but was fired six months ago. Since then she dropped off the face the earth and occasionally updating her Facebook profile. Before that, she would often post her 'dream vacations' of pictures of exotic places with lots of emoji's. David Rogers did mention her love of travel and the Egypt photo in her apartment but it really did mean a lot to her. Maybe the fact that she lost her job meant that she couldn't afford to travel anymore. I quickly search Derek Reed to see if he had an income but it looks as though his hasn't held a steady job since his DUI. Oh shit. Greta Reed was the breadwinner for a while and once she lost her job, no money was coming in. That still seems a bit simplistic to me but it seems likely. It's just a shame that she could only find solace in the comfort of alcohol. So the lingering question remains: why did the serial killer target her? The boxes are still stacked next to my desk and the one on the top is Celine Henry's. I crack it open and reach down to find the file on personal history or at least anything found in the investigation. As I skim the pages for anything, I find that Celine Henry used to be a pilot but then she was married to her husband. Suddenly, she too went into a depressive state and spent most of her time at a bar too. I lean back in my chair and rack my brain around that. So, that means that the killer has knowledge of the previous cases and he chooses his victims based on the similarities? Problem is that these cases are probably public knowledge and one could search for it on the Internet or even look at the articles in the newspaper of when the murders were reported. So, sort of back to square one. Still, it gives me an idea of who we're looking for next. I take the Henry case off the top and place it on the ground so I can reach into the next case. Deirdre Moller was the next to be murdered a week after Celine Henry. A few key features I pick out are that she was a mother, a housewife, and she was missing a golden broach and a ring. Greta Reed was missing a ring, I wonder if Celine Henry was missing something too. A quick glance at the coroners report and Cole's report shows that Celine Henry was missing a huge ruby ring. I close the files and place them carefully back in their respective boxes and stare out the window. While I don't know how the serial killer chooses his victims, I at least know what he's looking for. Problem is, there are thousands of women in the city who could match the same description as Deirdre Moller.

"Hey, crazy woman!" Sam jolts me out of my daze.

"What?" I ask annoyed.

"Got a call so let's roll." He motions with his thumb. Oh right, I forgot that people are shitty and are still killing other people. Why can't this city take a breather for a few fucking seconds!

* * *

Our victim was a bachelor who looked as though he OD'd on crack. Of course my first response was where were the narcotics detectives and of course they were late. Sam and I were busy doing actual work when we heard the boom of the door slam open. An asshole stood in the doorway that goes by the name of George Vickers.

"Hello Homicide!" He bellows and slaps Sam on the shoulder.

"What do we have?" He bends down and I swear he pretends to look at the body. I bend down to try and get on his level.

"Well his name is Victor Mann, and cause of death was ruled so far as an over dose on cocaine but it might have been tampered with so-" I get interrupted by hand in my face. Asshole takes away the hand and leans over the body to look at me straight in the eyes.

"Have you ever been told that you have a beautiful smile? What's your name?" He schmoozes. Two things: One, why is he hitting on me now. Two, why the smile? I thought he was looking at my eyes?

"Thanks." I mumble. That doesn't seem to satiate him as think he's now attempting to get closer to me by invading my personal space. Quickly, I get up and try and run away but he's in hot pursuit. I hurry into the bedroom but he stops halfway in the doorway and turns around to go speak to Sam. I stand there motionless for a minute and look around. Victor Mann seemed to be living the high life. Every piece of his furniture looks jagged and hard if you sit down on them. Also, for no reason, everything is grey but has a single color matt carpet draped across everything. The one noticeable thing is the amount of pills beside his bed. I peer down as lots of prescriptions to people other than Victor Mann. I can see that his favorite drug of choice is Adderall judging by the large amount of empty bottles. Before I can jot all this down, asshole comes back in and I swear slams his hand on my shoulder.

"You can go now sweetie, I can take it from here." He says with a confident grin. Well there goes my distraction. I reluctantly walk out of the bedroom and meet Sam at the doorway to the apartment. He greets me with a simple "Hey," but I raise my hands and start waving them around to get out my rage aside from punching the asshole.

"Yeah I get it! It sucks!" Sam agrees with me. I give him a stern look and charge out of the apartment. Fuck that asshole.

Even though we lost that case, Sam and I were still kept busy by more cases piling up that serial killings seemed distant. I walk into work and notice that Sam is sitting in his chair speechless but looks up at me with a worried expression.

"They found another woman." He says. At first I don't understand what he's talking about by my mind immediately flashes to that picture of Deirdre Moller lying naked in the dirt.

"Where?" I ask.

"That golf course, Wilshire Country Club." He states. I nod my head slowly and turn around to head towards the elevator.

* * *

All my doubts about the serial killer have been removed as I see the body of Helen Murphy. The killer decided to copy how Moller was killed, the strangulation marks, the boots dotting all over her chest, and the writing except it says CLOSE on Helen Murphy. Either that motherfucker knows that I know or he's playing with us, both are equally bad. Once again, something was ripped off her ring hand but whether or not she has a broach is a different story. Sam tells me that she was a mother and the address of their home, but I still look at her face even though Sam was long gone. I know there's nothing here for us and we have to move on but I think that if I stand here long enough I can find out what happened. I wonder if Cole did this too. Did he stand over Deirdre Moller and just think what the fuck happened or did he just move on and treat this like anything else. At least I know that I'm working with a sicko instead of an isolated incident. I notice the hoard of reporters being held back by the yellow tape, all craning their necks trying to get an exclusive shot of the body. A man with scruffy brown hair stands out as he just seems like some blogger and yet he's at the center of the chaos. I think he knows I'm staring at him as he focuses his gaze on me that gives me the shivers. Before I can leave, the owner stops me and gives me a furious look.

"How long is this gonna take?" He shouts. I shrug my shoulders and point over to some innocent patrolman. I should probably feel bad but I do have work to do and Sam is waiting. He waits patiently as I climb into the car.

"Did you speak to the coroner?" He asks. I shake my head.

"Did you look at her personal belongings?" He asks again. I shake my head again.

"For fuck's sake." He mutters as we drive off. Oh right, I forgot to be a detective.

Helen Murphy's house is much cleaner than Greta Reed's apartment. On the outside, it looks as though she kept a clean and tight household. I knock on the door several times before the door cracks open. A small person peers through but doesn't say a word. Suddenly loud stomping approaches and the door swings open to reveal a burly man with presumably his son next to him.

"What?" The father asks accusatory.

"LAPD sir, may we come in?" Sam replies. The man opens the door wider and herds his son farther into the house. We follow and the man points at the couches. We can hear voices from the back of the house while we sit quietly and wait. I decide this is the best time to sketch out our man with his receding hairline and growing beer belly. The husband appears from a corner and plops down on the couch opposite.

"Sorry, my wife isn't here so it's been a mess." He says frankly. Oh shit, he doesn't know. I look to Sam who is grimacing right now. He clears his throat.

"Um, Mr. Murphy your wife… is dead." Sam falls silent to let the husband have a moment. He buries his head in his hand and starts shaking.

"I knew! I knew something was wrong when she didn't return!" He cries. He rubs his forehead and looks down. Suddenly I see a little head peer round the corner.

"Dad?" His son squeaks. The husband looks up and his turn to glass.

"Go to your room young man." He tries to command but it comes out as teenage boy's voice cracking. The son doesn't move and looks at me. He can't be more than six.

"How old are you?" I ask sweetly.

"I'm five." He mumbles. Close enough. I get up and walk over to put my hand of his shoulder.

"That's so old!" I say surprisingly. The boy grins and puffs up his chest.

"What's your name?"

"Chris."

"Well Chris, I have a special mission for you. I need to you to watch the back of the house to make sure no sneaky people are listening to this important conversation. Can you do that?" I hope that was convincing enough. Thankfully it is as Chris nods his head and creeps slowly back around the corner and I hear a door slam. Now that's what I call excellent manipulation. I sit back down triumphantly but reality reels back hard as I see the pained expression of the husband.

"When did you last see your wife?" Sam asks immediately.

"Last night, she was meeting some of her friends at a bar I think." The husband croaks.

"A name?" I ask. He shakes his head.

"But," the husband returns "I can give you her friends, Agatha Benson and Danielle Rozanski." I flip to a new page to write their names down and leave enough space to draw their faces. Meanwhile, Sam is thanking the husband and touches my shoulder and points to the door. I stand up and as I am walking out the door I see Chris round the corner again staring at me with hurt. I know he knows but how can I comfort him?

I ease back down into m office chair and open up my email to look at the coroner's report. Cause of death was strangulation and time of death was around 1:30 in the morning. She did have alcohol in her body but this time no skin in her fingernails. So she was attacked and didn't even fight back. The killer must have taken her by surprise then; I wonder if he's getting better. A chill runs down my spine. I see that another email is commanding Sam and me to be downstairs in front of Naomi in whoa 10 minutes!

"The empress has summoned us." I announce.

"Isn't that offensive." Sam asks. I ponder for a second and half way shake my head and nod at the same time.

"Whatever, let's go." I add. We both get up to leave but before that I pull out the Moller case and rest it on my desk for later.

Naomi seemingly towered over us as we entered the lab. She grumbles something only to turn around to face the computer. She probably said something like 'welcome' or 'hello friends' but I guess she's not in the mood. Naomi clicks a thing and turns to us.

"Well I'm sure you know she was drunk." She quizzes us. We nod our heads.

"And that she was taken by surprise?" We nod our heads again. Naomi genuinely looks surprised as though she never expected to be… gasp cops!

"Well then you won't know that I found trace amounts of soil not found at the crime scene on her chest." She says smugly.

"What does that tell us?" Sam inquires. Naomi distaste returns with a vengeance as her signature scowl spreads across her face.

"It tells you the rough location of the killer." She says. I think she wants to add 'you dumb shits' but that's not Naomi's style. Instead she waves her hand to tell us to leave. I really don't like it when she does that but I guess I might do the same if I had to make sure that a certain place is clean everyday. In the elevator, I think about the two friends of Helen. Honestly, I doubt they know anything but it might be worth investigating; it might even lead to where that soil is. Wait, did Naomi ever tell us where the soil was?

"Did she tell us where the soil was?" Sam took the words out of my mouth. We stand in silence and suddenly turn to each other with wide grins. This time Naomi fucked up! Even though we had to ride the elevator twice, we managed to own Naomi by pretty much yelling at her that she messed up. She didn't particularly like that as she started yelling back (although she did calmly tell us where the soil was from) and somehow managed to summon a dark cloud as the atmosphere changed in the lab. Sam and I ran out, swearing that we'd never rub it in Naomi's face again.

After receiving the addresses of the two friends, we decide to first check out Danielle Rozanski who lives over in Santa Monica. Joy. I feel like that I'm beating a dead horse at this point but seriously what the fuck is LA traffic. Like I'm fairly certain fate just hates me because I feel like every time we are driving there is a problem. Finally we pull up to a quaint house with plastic toys and tricycles littering the front yard. Sam knocks on the door when suddenly we hear barking followed by a flurry of 'Mom!' escaping from the house. The door swings open to reveal a woman with dishevelled mousy brown hair.

"Yes?" she asks slightly tired but also annoyed.

"LAPD ma'am. We just had a few questions concerning your friend Helen Murphy." Who I can assume is Danielle Rozanski does nothing for a moment and simply leaves an opening in the door for us to step inside. She leads us to a living room where we decide to sit on the large beige couch while she sits on the opposite armchair.

"She's in trouble I know. We told her to stop with the drinking but she wouldn't hear it." She starts. I look down at my notebook while trying to find the right words.

"Mrs Rozanski, Helen was found dead this morning." Sam takes up the mantle of breaking the news. Danielle covers her mouth with her shaking hand. Her body goes into spasms and she begins to sob.

"I knew! I knew!" she cries. Well shit, I mean I do get her reaction. One day she was alive and now she's gone forever and that must be weird for our Danielle here but I can't help but feel that strange emotion rising to the surface. I imagine myself screaming at Danielle, telling her to move on and how we've all lost something, but that won't help the case or me. I need to pinch myself occasionally to remind myself that not everyone sees the world the way I do. Trust me, it's a challenge.

"How can I help?" Danielle has a fire in her eyes. I snap out of my trance and think.

"When did you last see her?" I ask.

"She left earlier than Agatha and me, with some guy she met! She was always loyal to her husband so I thought it was weird. I knew I should have called the cops, that man probably date raped her!" Danielle now covers her mouth with both her hands. Sam and I know that didn't happen but it's a warranted thought.

"Did you see the man?" I pressed on. Danielle shakes her head solemnly.

We leave the house and decide our next move in front of the car. On the one hand, we could just charge to the place where the soil is but we don't know a specific place, just an area. On the other hand, we could also go back to the office and analyse the Moller case and maybe we could find a clue there. I mean I know where I would go but once again Sam has stolen the driver's seat again and presumably is waiting for me to get my butt in the car.

"Where are we going now?" I ask, as I get comfortable in the passengers seat.

"Back to the office, we have some evidence to review." He says. I smile as buckle my seatbelt. I guess you could say that we just get each other.


End file.
